Just A Quick Email…

Just a quick email to thank you for the wedding gift, or "wedding gift certificate," I guess I should say. Two free pizzas—how thoughtful of you. And how generous: any toppings we want!

Maybe you hadn't heard that I'd registered at Tumbridge & Colchester, but I did. Last June, I think it was, just before we announced the engagement. Not that the pizzas didn't come in handy; they did, though in a slightly indirect way. Unlike you, who's so wonderfully unconcerned with what other people think, I'm a bit vain, especially when it comes to my figure. That being the case, I used the certificates to feed our workmen, who are currently building a slight addition. I know you thought our house was big enough already. "Tara meets Dress Barn" was how I heard you so cleverly describe it at the wedding. "I mean, really," you said. "How much room do two people need"

Or did you say, "Two thin people" What with the band playing and everyone in the world shouting their congratulations, it was a little hard to hear. Just like it is at our ever expanding house—the workers all hammering away! What they've done is tear down the wall between the kitchen and the breakfast nook. That'll give us room for a walkin silverware drawer and this new sixteenburner stove I've been eyeing. Plus, it will allow us to expand the counter space, put in a second dishwasher, and install an electric millstone for grinding blue corn. (Homemade tortillas, anyone) Then we're going to enclose that useless deck, insulate it, and create a separate dining room for when we go Asian. This will eliminate that ramp you're so fond of, but it's not like we see you all that often, and I don't think it will kill you to crawl up half a dozen stairs. As a matter of fact, as long as they're clean, I actually think it might be good for you.

Seeing as we're on this subject, Robin, is it right to insist on all this special treatment More than that, is it healthy It's been almost a year since the car accident. Don't you think it's time you moved on with your life Do I need to remind you of all my injuries: the dislocated shoulder, the practically broken wrist that still tingles when I do something strenuous like whisk in damp weather On top of that, it took me days to wash your blood out of my hair. The admitting nurse put me down as a redhead—that's how bad it was, your left front tooth practically embedded in my skull! It's no severed spinal cord, of course, but like Dr. Gaffney says, the ball is in your court now. You can either live in the past as a lonely, bitter paraplegic, or you can live in the present as one. I dusted myself off and got back on the proverbial horse, so why can't you

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In other news, did you get the postcard I sent from our honeymoon Iraq was beautiful, just as I imagined it would be, but there were so many Americans there! I said to Philip, "Is nowhere safe I mean, really. In terms of the crowds, we might as well have gone to Paris!" Then, of course, we did go to Paris, but it was for work rather than vacation. Philip had a client he needed to meet, an American in town for some big Chablis auction. He once defended her on a drunkdriving charge, and successfully, too, this despite her Breathalyzer results and some pretty bad behavior, some of which was caught on video. Now they're suing the people she hit, or at least the one that lived, and it looks like they've got a fairly good chance of winning. This is not to worry you in any way. What with the addition on the house and the million and a half other things on my "to do" list, a lawsuit is the last thing on my mind. Not that it wasn't proposed.

While my hardworking husband consulted with his client, I, alone, wandered the quais, stopping every now and then to duck into a boutique. And more than once I thought of you. For Paris, I remembered, is where you and Philip honeymooned. That was in the good old days, when the dollar and the euro were practically even. Now it costs a king's ransom just for a cup of coffee and a _croquemadame, _so a pair of shoes from Christian Louboutin—well, you can just imagine! I suppose that for you it would make sense, but for someone who walks the way I do, someone known to practically gallop when there's a sale taking place—the shoes I got are good for one, maybe two seasons at the most. Still, though, what could I do Iraq had been totally picked over by the time we arrived, and I wanted a little something to remind me of my trip.

After returning Stateside, Philip went right to work. His #1 job: to make me happy. First we started on the addition ($$$$$$$) and then a successful effort to erase that DWI from my driving record. It wasn't easy, but legal matters rarely are. All I can say is that if it helps to have friends, it helps even more to have friends who are governors!

None of this will get you out of your wheelchair, but it will restore my selfconfidence and what I like to think of as my good name. It means, as well, that you'll have to stop calling me the "drunken bitch" who "took away" your legs and then "stole" your husband. Drunk, it seems, is a relative term, and if I were you I'd watch how I used it. The leg bit is an exaggeration, as you clearly still have them (big purple veins and all). As for the stealing, Philip came to me of his own volition—one adult to another, no coercion involved. In the end, all you're left with is the single word bitch, which could mean any number of things. I myself would use it to describe someone whose idea of an appropriate wedding present is a gift certificate for two pizzas! Offering it to your exhusband I can understand, but to your own sister That's just tacky.

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